


Radioactive Recollections

by nukagirl77



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Discussions about being a Ghoul, Drug Use, Far Harbor, Feelings, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, Original Character(s), Original Female Characters - Freeform, Original Male Characters - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD mentions, The Cult of Atom, todd im gonna make a fallout better than you one day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-06-30 16:51:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15755850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nukagirl77/pseuds/nukagirl77
Summary: Everyone in the Wasteland has a story, whether in memories or in the makings.____A snippet collection for the fallout series, mostly following original characters and companions. Each chapter is a stand alone. Tags will be updated as chapters are added.





	1. Atomic Sight

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: X6-88 asks Nucleah about her tattoo  
> Nucleah is a member of the Cult of Atom and works as an institute informant with X6 pre-Nuclear Option, this takes place before the main story is completed.

“What does it mean?”

Nucleah stilled her hands at the sudden end of the silence. X6-88 and herself had been at her base in the Kingsport Lighthouse preparing plans for the surface nuclear operations, much to her delight. Anything causing the thermonuclear energy and emitting the familiar glow of radiation gave Nucleah a bit of joy. To aid in their operation, Nucleah had picked up some old war machinery from the General Atomics factory from damaged robots. She had been scavenging them for parts to see if she could create a device to help them bypass the pre-war security, mostly for her own amusement. After all, if she couldn’t manage to create anything there was always X6-88’s way: violence. They had been working in silence until now, with Nucleah picking at the machines with a pair of pliers and X6-88 watching over her while tuning his laser rifle.

 She turned over to look at him, the arch of her eyebrow raised only a hair. “Hm? What I am doing? I’m attempting to making a tool that will fit within the system mechanics, so we can enter the plant and reroute it without alarming the security. Or, for a layman like you, I'm trying to hotwire the door. Bottomline is it means I’m saving us ammo.”

X6-88 stared at her for a second, his expression like stone behind the courser’s aviators. “No, I understand roughly what that is and why. I am asking for more of a personal matter.”

That was new. It was new and – more importantly – it was interesting. Nucleah put down her tools to completely turn to face him, her lips beginning to curl up into her cat-like grin.

 “Oh? What question do I have the answer to, but a strong Institute courser does not?” She asked teasingly. She often teased or made condescending jokes to him, but Nucleah had never been able to faze him in any way. He took it with a grace, and a slight jab back towards her. That was just as entertaining to her though. It wouldn’t be as enjoyable if she got to his nerves all the time, she mused. He seemed to contemplate how he wanted to approach the topic for a moment. Or maybe he was regretting asking.

  “What does your tattoo symbolize? Not long after we met, you had mentioned that the marking carried meaning,” X6 finally said. She noted that his posture seemed to be softer than usual, and there was an unfamiliar edge to his voice.

Interesting.

Nucleah sighed and tilted her head to her left. Phantom sensations began to tingle on her face, reminding her of the Division within her cells when the needle etched the ink in. No one had ever bothered to ask her that, aside from the Church who knew its meaning already. Though, most wastelanders didn’t ever give her much chance for talking when they pointed at gun at her and cried ‘zealot’. She answered honestly, as she always did.

“It is called the Atomic Sight, given to those who possess Atom’s visions and resource,” Nucleah raised her pointer finger to trace the orbitals stemming around her left eye. “These rings represent Atom’s base form, and as they coincide with my own eye, he has given me some of his knowledge. My village, the one you affectionately called a radioactive slum, has looked to me for the knowledge of tech. I built their power, their machines, and I’ve searched military base after base capsized in the Glow for more knowledge. Confessor Hutchinson and Sister Gamma think it’s only fitting my mark of devotion should be his sight.”

X6-88 acknowledge he had heard her through a slight shift in his head, although Nucleah couldn’t decipher what he thought of it from his immovable expression. “The markings of the cult have meanings to them?”

“All marks of devotion have meaning,” She responded. “Before the war, there were crosses and stars and characters that all showed peoples loyalties. The old-world flags — the new world flags as well. Do they not all symbolize what you believe in?”

“Perhaps you are right,” X6-88 hummed. Nucleah grinned, showing all teeth.

“I _am_ right.”

“Of course, ma’am,” X6-88 said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Nucleah bit her tongue to hold her snarky remark back to him and turned to work again. It was almost.... kind about how he had asked her about the Church. No one else ever had (not that she met many people before X6-88 anyway). And it was undeniably human, a thing she doubt X6-88 even saw in himself. He was a courser; at the core, he was brainwashed to disbelieve his own individuality.

She had barely picked up her pliers when he spoke again.

“If I were to join your cult, what would my symbol be?” He asked her. If it weren’t for the nearly invisible waver at the end of his voice, Nucleah may have never noticed he sounded apprehensive about the question.

She paused. “I cannot say, X6. But I believe you have the heart of Atom. You have a forceful spirit like Atom has given you the agency to help others and fueled the Division within you,” She looked over her shoulder at him once more, purposefully making intense eye contact. She wanted this to stick, through the Institute’s invisible control. “It is a noble role to have, especially expressed so composed.”

And a role that cannot unbind you from the humanity within, even with a synthetic body. Nucleah let the implication hang in the air, for the courser to mull over or dismiss. And X6-88 lapsed into silence after, letting the gentle sound of the waves drift up from the docks below.


	2. Let the Past Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jaime helps Faraday in Far Harbor. The two chat.  
> Jaime is a pre-war ghoul, whose optimism has served him well.

“I really cannot thank you enough, Mr. Jackson. F-for helping me out that is; Kasumi is quite busy on fixing Acadia’s power core.”

Jaime blinked owlishly at being addressed. Faraday was stumbling over himself from his terminal, anxious energy visibly rolling off him. He looked as stressed as always with his lab coat wrinkled and dark circles visible under his eyes. It was almost like you could see the weight of his responsibilities on him, whether it be fussing over DiMA or the work it took to maintain Far Harbor. Around him, the familiar thrum of electricity was filling the dome of the observatory, almost drowning out Travis’ voice on the radio. Jaime regained his composure.

“You can call me Jaime, Faraday,” He replied, with the ghost of a smile on his face. Faraday coughed out an apology while he continued. “And it’s really nothing. I am a jack of all trades willing to help.”

Faraday had asked him to help repair some of the machinery that up-kept DiMA’s memory drives, which was well within Jaime’s caliber. After all, he had lost count of how many times _someone somewhere_ had asked him to tinker around at some pre-war machine. Whether it was the power core in the Diamond City stands, or the lights in Bunker Hill, or some loose screw on KL-E-0, Jaime picked up some degree handiness. After all, 200 years left him a lot of time to learn new things.

“Well, Mr. Jackson, your adaptability sure is useful,” Faraday remarked, tugging on his coat (a nervous habit Jaime noticed he did).

“Jaime." Jaime corrected again, and Faraday looked almost embarrassed at slipping up again. Informality didn’t seem to be his forte, but Jaime made no move to say that to him. “— And, I sure hope it is. After all, I had to learn to do all kinds of things in 200 years.”

Jaime pulled a frayed wire out of the hard drive, taking careful note to not pull anything else. There had to be another new wire somewhere in this bin, he mused looking at the spare parts Kasumi had given him.

“Are you really 200?” Faraday asked suddenly, although he looked like he immediately regretted asking such a blunt question. Jaime smiled, despite the fact Faraday couldn’t fully view it from his angle.

“Mmm, more like 237,” He quipped, smile ringing in his voice. “Give or take a few years that is.”

Jaime set the new wire in place with a small click and then turned to look at Faraday. “Why? Doesn’t my complexion look amazing for a 237-year-old?”

He was teasing of course, he knew that on a good day he looked like a raisin. On a bad day, some victim of radioactive necrosis. But Faraday visibly stilled, obviously not wanting to offend Jaime.

“I-I have just— um. It’s just that I have never met someone who’s known a world that’s not _this_ ,” Faraday replied, vaguely gesturing in the air. Jaime understood what he meant: A world not in ruins and radiation. “I mean. All of this must be hard for you to accept.”

“Well… I can’t say that when I was 25 we never expected nuclear annihilation, it’s just that you’re never ready for when it strikes. After all, how can you _really_ be ready for something outrageous like that anyway?” Jaime shrugged. It was 210 years ago; the anger over the war had long since been snuffed out in him.

 “No—well, that too—but, I mean. The Institute. Synths made to replace others. Living machines. It must seem… different,” Faraday finished lamely. In his words was an unsaid sentiment: Jaime must think he’s an abomination. Jaime frowned at the notion.

“Hmm, well I can’t say it’s what I expected from the future. But I also didn’t expect to live to be this old or look like a sentient raisin,” Jaime conceded. Faraday stifled a noise, either from shock or laughter (he couldn’t tell). “I don’t think you guys are terrible Faraday. In fact, you guys are so human in every aspect that you’re just people to me. People surviving despite everything.”

“But we aren’t human,” Faraday said, barely a whisper. _I’m not human._

“Neither am I. Becoming a ghoul is frightening at first, you know. Painful. You lose what you were; Your world becomes unstable. But, I’m still Jaime. And I think you must feel that way too. So, you and I aren’t much different. You are a synth, but you are also Faraday with unique things no one can take from you,” Jaime assured him softly. He felt a phantom pain of nostalgia in his chest. “The future isn’t terrible. And the past wasn’t all that great either.”

Faraday stared at him, his mouth slightly agape and an indescribable emotion in his eyes. Jaime tilted his head with a smile as he processed it. How was it possible to feel so old yet the same as before it all? Jaime didn’t know. But he knew that he was somehow both.

“Thank you for that. It’s—It’s comforting knowing that you feel that way,” Faraday sighed, with a content expression coming through his tired features. “Jaime, thank you.”

He could only nod at him in return, hoping the unspoken caring reassurances got through and his sincerities felt.

“……You know. I do miss my nose though,” Jaime admitted.

Faraday finally let out a laugh. And Jaime joined him.


	3. Painful Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Butch and Sable (Lone Wanderer) have a moment of quiet in the Wasteland. She reflects.

Under the night sky, the Capitol Wasteland seemed peaceful. The heat of day fell away, relieving the scorched and dry grass, the rocky cliffs that baked in the atomic sky, and weary people who were slaves to the waking hours. Nightfall washed over the chaotic wasteland and created a moment of calm – even in the minefield of the Capital Plaza, where for a moment not a gunshot could be heard. Danger still lingered, as it always did, but the radscorpions seemed to take pause and the Yao Guai ceased lumbering to rest in their caves. Ruthless Raiders took a moment to abstain from the night and the con men put their schemes on hold. And in the temporary repose, the sky unveiled a myriad of stars no longer hidden by the pollution of light from the metropolis that once stood there. Somehow, even at the end of the world, nature managed to create a captivating display of serenity and beauty, untouched by the vices of mankind.

Sable sat, hugging her knees, and staring up at the night. Her body ached from the day’s abuse; a bandage was wrapped around her hand and her shoulder ached from the punctures of stimpacks she used. She had shed her armor for the day, dressed only still in her dirty vault suit and scuffed boots. Butch was on his knees next to her, fluffing up some bedrolls and checking their supplies. His bulk next to her was vaguely comforting as the rough day ended; he reminded her of home. And the thought of this alleviated her melancholy head for the while.

“Ay, nosebleed, eat up,” Butch barked after a moment of rustling through things. Sable tore her tired gaze away from the stars and over to him to see him holding a Salisbury Steak box towards her. Despite not having an appetite, she took it from him silently, not having the will to fight him. Resting the box in her lap, she went back to watching the sky with weary eyes. Butch was quiet a moment before moving himself into a similar sitting position next to hers with his gaze focused up as well like if he looked hard enough he could see what she saw.

“I wish I could eat the damn Sugar Bombs,” He said after a while, with a light laugh to his voice as he sensed Sable’s dour mood.

“They’re for Murphey,” She responded, voice subdued.

“He doesn’t even eat them. He makes Jet, y’know, drugs,” Butch said in a teasing voice, like he hoped to start some silly indignation from her over it.

Sable shrugged. “He pays us. Besides, it’s what he wants I can’t control him.”

After that, they fell into another lull of silence. The moon shone over their camp which happened to be a poor little shack with dilapidated shelves and saggy bedrolls with their guns laid next to them. Despite the cool light of the moon, deep in her mind, Sable could feel the world weighing her down. The Brotherhood, the Enclave, Doctor Li, Three Dog – the whole Capitol Wasteland was placing their hopes and desires on her. Yet, she was only a child at heart. A child that lost her home and her father within a week. That was something that even the calming atmosphere and cool light of the moon could not remedy. She could sense Butch’s bulk next to her, which she appreciated as a comfort in the silence, but even more so she could sense him floundering to think of something as he was unused to keeping silent.

“The sky is so pretty, you know…Butch, did you ever imagine it looking like that when you were thinking of getting out of the vault?” She asked, to break the silence. He seemed to ponder this new subject for a moment, turning his switchblade over in his hands and letting the steel glint in the moonlight.

“I dunno…never really thought about it before. I just wanted out,” He said after a while.

“Why did you want out?” She asked softly.

“That dumb vault couldn’t hold Butch Deloria anymore, doll! I gotta start making the best gang in the wastes,” He declared with a joking, wide grin. After Sable didn’t make much of move to smile, he coughed and continued. “Plus… things hadn’t been the same since you left the vault. A lot changed, you know.”

Things had. That day she lost the only home she knew, her family, and her friends. Thrust out into an uncaring and unusual world, nothing was the same as it once was. He had lost the peace of home and a lifetime friend. The vault once affectionately called home now only held bitter nostalgia and the world above callously plunged them both into a conflict they should have never had to bare. These facts were universal to Sable, though she tried to purge them from her mind. No matter how hard she tried to forget her misfortune though, it always reared its ugly head back at her.

 “…I never properly thanked you for that,” He said after a pause from Sable’s musing. For the first time since they started talking, she turned her head to him in confusion.

“For what?”

“For, you know, saving me and my mom,” He admitted. “I wasn’t sure what to do. I know I talk about being tough but that was the first time I had faced some danger. You seemed to know what you were doing with that pistol though, pistol-packing mama. Where did you learn to shoot?”

“My…,” The words seemed to stick in the back of Sable’s throat. Oh god, she didn’t want to remember. “My d-dad and Jonas taught me. When I was 10 they brought me a BB rifle that I could practice in the Reactor tunnels with.”

Butch was silent at this. No doubt he too realized what he had unearthed. “I’m sorry…I really am glad you helped me though. You didn’t have to with what a huge asshole I was in the past.”

Sable remembered. At first, she and Butch would have child’s rapport with juvenile insults being thrown about while he tried to be a tough ‘man’ and Sable would be complacently listening to adults. Then it even escalated to fighting physically when she and Butch would fist fight over Amata or something else trivial that he tried to do. But, in hindsight, Sable wouldn’t say she particularly hated him or any of it. “None of that was important to me. I would never let someone else die just because once he tried to steal my sweet roll.”

“There you go being noble again, nosebleed,” Butch laughed. “But more seriously, I’m glad you came back to help us too.”

Amata’s voice still rang in her ears.

‘ _Please, come back Sable. We need you’_

‘ _Sable, I banish you from Vault 101. Please…don’t come back’_

“Y’know, for the first time, I really saw you if that makes sense. It was only about a week or two but when I saw your face, it felt like years. You looked stronger – in your jaw and in your eyes. You spoke with a different tone too, and now being here I can see why. There’s some fucked up shit out here,” Butch continued. His normally boisterous voice was subdued, like he was thinking aloud and had forgotten Sable was there. “The one thing that shocked me though was that you were wearing it still. When I gave you my old Tunnel Snakes jacket I half expected you to throw it away when you left. But you came back still wearing it – maybe a little more disheveled than it ever was, but still in one piece… Why did you keep it?”

The words were choking Sable. How could she say the truth?

_It reminded me of you. You remind me of home._

For some reason, this simple question evoked all her pent-up feelings. It was like a nail being driven into an already quaking dam. And upon its entry, the wall holding everything back broke. Tears began to sting her eyes and her chest felt compressed under the weight of all her longing and memories.

“I…” She shakily began, her voice quivering. “I miss home.”

Her vision blurred as tears welled in her eyes, blurring the stars and the sky together, and she couldn’t see Butch anymore because of the hot shame rising to her face. God, she felt like an idiot blubbering in front of him with hot tears and snot from her choked sobs. Trying to compose herself felt like picking up glass with jagged edges – it was impossible and only hurt her even more.

“Sable….” Butch uttered, almost a whisper, next to her. Somehow it hurt even more to hear him. Shame filled her tears but she couldn’t bring them to stop. Pangs of want stabbed her right in the heart – want to go home, want to forget her father’s betrayal, want to escape the Brotherhood’s hopes, want to leave and never come back – and she clutched the collar of her vault suit, over her heart. As if she could physically prevent the pain.

Suddenly a warm embrace enveloped her head and pressed her into a warm body. Butch had taken her into his arms, holding her head into the crook of his shoulder. She could feel the worn, rugged leather of his jacket, the knit synthetic of his vault suit, and could deeply smell the scent of his cologne, the soot from the gunpowder. He said nothing as he held her, as her body was wracked with sobs.

She still had a semblance of home in the calm of night. He was all she had left. And somehow, she could tell he felt the same.


	4. Tearing My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Ember (Courier Six) and Veronica discuss love.

In the Mojave Wasteland, moments of peace and beauty were rarely seen let alone savored. The desert rarely saw peace with the irradiated animals prowling under the harsh sun, factions locked in a stagnant power struggle, and wastelanders grasping onto some hope to survive the day and live to see the next sunrise. The sand was stained with the spilt blood of them all. And every moment you roamed, sounds of gunshots rang across the wastes like a barbaric symphony of all the strife and death. The Mojave was unforgiving but, to Ember, it possessed its own beauty. It wasn't a conventional beauty, fair and waifish like a young girl, but an exotic and dangerous one. Though the land was once violated by humankind and graced with rotting, dilapidated buildings, the force of its natural wonders still overpowered her. The sun-soaked canyons and mountains stood like gods unable to be moved by man, the stained sand stretched infinitely almost as an open promise to adventure -- all in all, almost otherworldly and powerful. The dusty figures of wastelanders offered the prospect of friendship or danger and the venomous cazadors crept with their ruby eyes and wings the color of the dying sun's light; each was an alluring gamble to play with one's life. New Vegas teemed with enticing danger and opportunity that captivated her to stay in the Mojave.

But the Mojave's beauty was never peaceful. After all, the word 'wasteland' doesn't elicit an image of calm and the Mojave was no different in this aspect. Ember let her eyes trace a small twister of dead leaves swirl across the sand. The chase lasted only a moment before the cycle was disrupted with another gust of wind. The Mojave's dust had already thoroughly covered her body in grains of sand from her red beret to the scuffed combat boots. A small amusing thought crossed her - no matter how hard she tried to insulate her body from the sand getting everywhere, somehow it found a way. Even now, she had grains lining the inside of her boots and scratching her back uncomfortably. Turning her head away from the open wastes, Ember took a moment to check on her companions.

Veronica was kindling a fire in an alcove of the mountain, guarded against the wind and stinging sand. Her pneumatic gauntlet rested near her feet. Slowly, she threw flammable junk and old paper they had gathered in the wastes along with some hate mail Ember had gotten for "The Courier Six". Rex, the faithful boy, was lying nearby, his robot appendages glittering in the dancing firelight. The sun had gone away, taking with it all the warmth of the desert and revealed a starry sky: Another radiation-tinged beauty. For once, the elusive goddess of peace had graced the three of them under a beautiful night sky shared with one another.

Ember hummed lightly as she looked at the scene. Once she was certain Veronica's light wouldn't invite Nightstalkers or any two-bit raider to their camp, Ember turned her back to the wastes and retreated into the alcove. Carefully, she took off her new toy -- a glowsighted Plasma rifle -- from her shoulder and propped it on a rock wall not far from her resting place. Then she shed her long overcoated and beat it with a gloved hand to shake off all excess sand that stuck to her over the course of the day. A puff of debris come off in response and settled over the alcove.

"Great. I love sand in my fire," Veronica teased sarcastically, a tiny grin on her face as she ripped a paper into the fire. Ember scoffed and dropped her coat onto an upright rock to act as padding for her back. With her free hand, she reached up and scrunched up her recon beret and pulled it off her choppy, messy hair. Lightly, she shook the sand out of it and duly noted of the grains in her hair. That, she could live with she supposed; it was already a wreck anyway.

With a huff, Ember sat down against the rock -- moving her arms behind her head, legs stretched out and eyes facing skyward. For once, she didn't have anything to comment on. There was only the crackling of the fire and the breathing of her and Veronica. Almost if having an instinctive desire, Rex had gotten up from his place and moved to place his head in her lap. The metal of his jawbone pierced through her pants and Ember moved a hand to rest it on his brain cavity.

After a moment of complete silence, Ember already couldn't stand it. She always was a loud mouth after all. There was always something to say, to tease, to be snide about or something to do. And she was about as set in her ways as an old man. Silently, Ember looked at Veronica from her recumbent pose and felt something within her chest twinge. Some overwhelming feeling of....affection swelled in her like the tide when she gazed at her. Ember knew she had quite the soft spot when it came to her, for Veronica got away with more jabs and took less heat than Boone or Raul. Something about her just made all the years in the wasteland melt away and make her all soft. Maybe it was her optimism, her romanticism or her rebel spirit. Regardless, Veronica was beautiful to her. Not in a conventional sort of beauty like a pin-up doll, after all, she was slightly stocky with chopped brown hair and covered in dirt. Plus, not many would find her potato-sack jumpsuit extremely sexy. But there was beauty in her strength, the way she defiantly said "No" to injustice, her calloused hands, and her dusty dimples.

The whole mushy feeling made Ember uneasy. You couldn't shoot them like you shot cazadors.

"Hey Veronica, Can I ask ya somethin'?" Ember asked, turning her gaze back towards the stars.

"Shoot. I have some nuclear bomb answers for you," Veronica answered as she took her eyes off the fire and looked at her with those dreamy eyes. Ember could feel her gaze but couldn't bear to look at the risk of having her insides melt to mush.

"Have you ever been in love?" Ember asked. She scratched Rex's ear absentmindedly as she asked.

"Wow, nosy much?" Veronica scoffed as she looked away. She was quiet for a moment and Ember almost thought she wasn't going to answer.

"I was, once," Veronica replied although she sounded softer, more subdued than usual. "We were young but I think it was love. At least, the most in love I've ever been."

"What happened?" Ember asked, despite the feeling in her gut that she did not want to know.

"She left the brotherhood," Veronica supplied. By the tone of her voice, she sounded like was straining her to remember. Most of her memories with the Brotherhood held the same sort of melancholy nostalgia. "I suppose she wanted to put distance between her and her parents....Since our membership is closed to outsiders, some assholes think it's a requirement for members to procreate. I guess you can figure out which group her parents belonged to."

Something within told her that she didn't want to hear any more of the story, but she asked even more still. "You didn't go with her?"

"Nope," Veronica laughed bitterly. "Couldn't bring myself to leave everyone behind. But I couldn't convince her to stay either. I had hoped love would be enough to influence her, but it wasn't enough. We were both too stubborn."

Ember felt the fire that resided within her begin to burn brighter, like an inferno at the words. She felt angry at someone whom she had never met before, because who would throw Veronica away? Veronica was a treasure and the best damn thing that the Brotherhood of Steel had given to the godforsaken Mojave. But a part of her felt thankful. Because if she hadn't, Ember would have never met or treasured Veronica as she did right now.

"I don't know where she is now, but I'm sure she has moved on," Veronica continued. "I still think about her though...Every once and awhile."

That last bit made the twinge in Ember's chest feel more painful than it ever did. She still had her feelings for this wayward girl, not for the one next to her. The mushy pit in her chest was a futile thing and with how soft she had become with her would no doubt cause her injury.

"Ember," Veronica addressed her to gather her attention. Ember looked at her to show that she was listening. "Have you ever been in love?"

She looked away.

"Yes," She responded quietly. "With a girl who probably will never love me back."


	5. The Protector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt(s): Exploring the relationship between Sable (Lone Wanderer) and Charon, her bodyguard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1st Section: After Liberty Prime destroyed the Enclave during the assault on the Water Purifier, The Citadel celebrates. Sable is left with a hole in her heart.  
> 2nd Section: Sable decides to leave the Capitol Wasteland and free Charon from his contract.

This wasn’t at all what Sable had intended to happen.

Despite everyone in a cheerful uproar around her after she had finally awoken from her toxic coma, she couldn’t help but feel... nothing at all. It was some sort of emptiness or melancholy deep within her soul. She knew she should feel elated -- proud even! After all, the Capitol Bay had been cleared of radiation and the Enclave was stopped from terrorizing the D.C Wasteland. It was a tremendous step in helping the post-apocalyptic world, one bit at a time, and Sable knew this.

But… She couldn’t bring herself to be happy. Surrounded by the Pride, Sarah, and Butch, she tried to smile and act thankful. But even she knew it was forced. She had never been a very good faker; Amata would know personally ( _Oh, Amata…How I miss you_ ). Charon, by her side, as he often was -- though he watched her even closer now since the Incident -- grumbled to himself under his breath and roughly shoved some initiates out of her space. He sensed something was wrong and was trying to help -- in his own way rough way. She appreciated the gesture even though the initiates did not.

“Ms. Chen.”

“Yes, Charon?” She answered his abrupt statement calmly in the loud space. She really would prefer to be anywhere else but here but she didn’t want to disappoint anyone. The whole Citadel had anticipated this celebration and even saved up rations to party.

“Would you like to leave?” He asked, looking down at her from his tall stature. His light eyes were piercing as if he could see right through her.

“N-No, I’m fine Charon,” Sable managed, putting on her most convincing smile on. A moment passed.

“Ms. Chen.”

“Yes?”

“Are you sure?” He asked. Slightly, only by the minute detail and nuance of his expression, his face softened while looking at her. Charon was smart; he knew liars. After all he'd been through, he's more perceptive than people realize.

“....Yes,” Sable said after a moment of hesitation. The words felt sour leaving her mouth. Charon looked at her impassively but she thought she saw some pity flash in his eyes.

“As you wish,” He said eventually. She wished he hadn't.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She hadn’t thought it was possible, but somehow in this moment, her heart felt heavier than ever before. Thinking about it was one thing, doing it was another entirely. But, it had to be done. She had to leave and that meant leaving everything behind as well. She took a deep breath in as she gazed out onto the sloping hills of D.C. Then she turned to face him, turning her back on the setting sun.

“Charon.”

“Yes, Ms. Chen?” He readily supplied, always awaiting what she would say next.

“I...I want you to go away,” She bit out. The words stung herself like she was holding a stoker but her hand was too close to the fire. This was hard, she realized.

“Where would you like me to go?” He asked. Sable’s breath hitched. Did he not understand? No, she believed he did; he was just refusing to.

“No, Charon I-” She paused, trying to get her sentence out. “I want you to go _away_ ; I’m leaving D.C.”

Charon was silent as if debating this within himself, wondering how he would react to her.

“Then I shall accompany you.”

“Charon no-”

“I will protect you as we travel, like always,” He stated. It was so clear to him but Sable felt like it was breaking her. Dully, she felt her head shake in disbelief. Why was he making this harder for her?

“No! Fine, if you won’t listen to me then-then I ORDER you Charon to go! Leave!” Sable felt her voice rise, felt her face become hot, and tears began to sting her eyes. She felt like chaos in front of him while he stood composed like a stone wall. So sure and clear in a moment of uncertainty.

“I cannot. My contract states for me to protect you as you are my master -” He replied low and steady despite her desperate cries.

“Forget about the contract! Charon you--” Sable felt her own tears and her face contorting. Vaguely, she recalled similar instances in her childhood. Little Sable Chen: always crying. She had to think of something. “You-you know what?”

From inside her Tunnel Snakes jacket, she pulled out the contract; The crumpled piece of paper that was Charon’s life. Abruptly, she ripped the paper in two. And she kept shredding, bit by bit. Then when she was done, she threw them towards the sun.

“There. You are free Charon,” She said, voice warbling as she tried to keep her tone still. He stared at her, jaw slacked and eyes wide in surprise and some degree of horror. She wasn’t sure if he was angry or upset so she kept talking to stop any outburst. “Charon, I have to go. I don’t want D.C. anymore; it hurts too much. I care about you so much because all you’ve done is look after me, but I don’t want any reminders. You should be free now, you always should have been. I hope you understand that. For me.”

They fell into a tense silence after that. The wind gently blew Sable’s hair and the long grass in the background, calmly rocking the world despite the situation. They kept their gazes steady towards one another: Sable’s desperate and teary-eyed and Charon’s impassive and stony. Then, silently, Charon turned to the distance where Sable had thrown the contract and picked up a piece And then moved to pick up another.

But he said nothing and Sable’s heart broke.

Forcibly, she turned herself away from him and began walking away. She tried not to look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is slightly older and not meant for this collection but I thought I'd include it! It's more of a piece based purely on emotion so it just goes with the flow of how I imagine Sable would feel.


	6. Time Goes On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Time has gone on since Sable exited Vault 101.

_Camisado, Part I_

10 years ago, she had her fateful 18th birthday in Vault 101, marking the end of her childhood in more than one way. No longer was she a child chasing after her father and the phantom which her mother left her. No longer could her idle life underground continue. No more simple worries like the G.O.A.T., or gossiping with Amata, or what Old Lady Lucy would decide to tell her that day from when she was a child. It was all over with a loud bang. She could still hear the sirens, see the blood, smell the tang of radiation, feel the tremble of her lips. They were sensations she never forgot, that held her hostage in her mind as nights fell in August.

9 years and 9 months ago, she saw her father for the last time. The man who had raised her, gently caressed her hair, and soothed her pains, was unrecognizable in the fluorescent glow of the lamp lights. He held no more warmth for her, no more words of comfort. He had become a man of the world with no time for a broken child he left behind. And yet, she still wept. As radiation seeped into her father’s skin, blood bursting from his eyes and pouring from his mouth, he whispered his last words: “Revelations 26:1”. As the light in his eyes only became filled with the glow, she pounded on the glass wall, sobbing for him to take it back, for a final ‘I love you’. Charon had to rip her from the impenetrable glass, grabbing her waist and pulling her inconsolable heart away from the purifier. She cried until she could no longer produce any more tears.

9 years and 6 months ago, she uttered the phrase “Revelations 26:1” – ironically the last phrase of her father’s – as she typed the code into Jefferson’s Purifier. At once, radiation flooded her senses and the torrent of water filled her ears. The sickness began to take her all at once blurring her vision, compressing her chest, causing necrosis to shoot through her skin. As she faded, she saw the outline of America’s forefather, who had once said that life should be given the pursuit of happiness. And in that moment of fading, she felt relief. A relief from life’s burden upon her. That finally she could escape what the world expected of her and the pain she was running from.

9 years ago, she felt herself come back from her blissful abyss and gaze into the sympathetic eyes of Elder Lyons. She had not embraced death, whom she had longed for. Instead, Sarah and Charon had pulled her back from the brink, soaking radiation in from her skin. As everyone felt overjoyed she had come back to them, she felt a deep despair. As she stroked Sarah’s blonde hair as she lay comatose, she felt the bitter taste of guilt. As Butch grasped her hand, she felt the regret of not leaving his life. She felt terrible. What for? Everything. Yet, she donned her signature emblem once again as a girl with the weight of everyone’s hopes.

8 years ago, she decided to leave the Capitol Wasteland. There was turmoil in her mind, a void in her heart, and irreparable scars – both visible and invisible – on her body. She yearned to heal herself, abandon all that she had in hopes to one day rid herself of her haunted life. Although, in the end, time was not all kind to her. Her wounds would not heal completely, they ached still but not as they once did when they were fresh. Yet, she had foolishly hoped then that time would smooth them over and she would forget. Even though it was what she wished, she didn’t know why her heart was so heavy when she turned her back on her reminders.

7 years ago, she wandered into nowhere. She heard the whispers of a long-forgotten Enclave, under an old-world flag. She fought back her memories, the pain of General Autumn’s harsh voice and the sting of electricity. As she nursed a strong whiskey, she thought to herself on how she would end all the reminders. She would keep traveling westward.

6 years ago, she tasted true deserts sand for the first time in the west. Her weary eyes landed upon the glistening visage of the ruins of New Vegas. The old world was ripe to be repeated as they built their neon signs, vices, and allegiances. Somehow, though completely different, she was reminded of home. The dilapidated buildings reminded her of the collapsed buildings of D.C.; a different city beaten by time and war. Somehow, even as she tried to make modest work of herself as a Gun Runner guard, trouble seemed to find her. This time it was in the form of a young woman with intense green eyes, wild red hair, and a platinum chip embezzled with ‘ _Lucky 38_ ’. Suddenly, a war of geopolitics emerged as an almost eerie repetition of the past she left behind. Whispers of the Enclave reached her ears once again. Only, she wasn’t the one with the burden to bear this time. Perhaps out of pity, she decided to stand by the woman known as Courier Six. Sable had withstood the storm alone, but she wouldn’t have to.

5 years ago, she felt the warmth of the Mojave sands one last time. She held Butch in her arms, the leather of his jacket slick beneath her sweaty hands and her tears hot on her face. She felt all her wounds tear open anew, exposed to the harsh sands of the desert, but she also cried out of relief. He had come for her; he had searched westward this whole time for her, never knowing if they would reunite. But he had. He told her that Moira missed her, Fawkes missed her, Charon missed her, Sarah missed her, he missed her. And he told her three words that made her feel both like a new person and a broken 18-year-old girl again: “I love you.” Ember looked at her strangely but smiled with that crooked smile of hers. In her gaze, they held an unspoken agreement. Her time in the Mojave was over.

4 years and 6 months ago, she smelled the crisp air of the Capitol Wasteland once again. She laid her eyes upon the nuclear warhead in Megaton and she instantly felt home. Nearly 5 years had passed, but almost nothing had changed. Nothing _had_ changed, but she had. She looked upon her home with clean eyes – untainted by the past. Moira let out a yell of excitement as she walked in with Butch, nearly picking her up with a huge hug and excitedly chattering about the Survival Guide. Charon approached her from the back of Moira’s shop, eyes stoic and unrelenting. He gently took her hand and pushed a barely salvaged piece of wrinkled, taped paper into her hands. His contract, that she had ripped 5 years ago. At once, she pulled him into a crushing hug, tears flowing freely in-between her choked apologies. And she swore she felt his strong hands on her back as well.

4 years and 5 months ago, Sarah greeted her with open arms again. The citadel was no longer her home nor Sable’s. Her father had passed away in Sable’s absence and a new Elder had assumed control. The Brotherhood was no longer where they both remained, having changed against helping the people of D.C. to focus on a ‘greater goal’. But if Sable had learned anything in the Mojave, it was that the old world longs to remain dead. After all, it was easy to find it, the hard part was letting it go. Sarah took her hand in hers and together they silently decided they would not let Lyon’s directive die, building the Pride out of what he had left behind. Sable made a silent promise to herself to memorize the last time she saw his kind face.

3 years ago, she saw Robert Joseph MacCready again, now 19 years old and no longer a child. He looked ragged and world-weary with a sniper rifle strapped to his back, but he instantly recognized her face. He stuttered and asked if she was real, to which she only smiled and laughed at him. He had left the shelter of Little Lamplight, as all the kids would have to once they were grown. He now saw the night sky whenever he pleased, though he admitted to preferring a rocky ceiling overhead. She whispered in near pride at how much he had grown up, being only a little bit older than when she was last time they met. He rubbed the back of his neck shyly as they continued to talk like old friends reunited. Not once did he remind her of Vault 86.

2 years ago, She and Sarah stood defiantly at the Jefferson memorial demanding the Brotherhood relinquish it to her. As the rain beat down on them, Sable dug her heels into the earth against the organization she once stood a champion for. Both she and Sarah had nearly died for the memorial and what it represented to the Wasteland. And now, she refused to let them corrupt what vision she and Elder Lyons had once hoped for in the purifier. Eventually, they achieved a compromise. She supposed they saw the former champion of their wasteland visage and the legacy of their former Elder compelling enough to see some semblance of humanity. The Pride would gain control of the Memorial, but the Brotherhood had the right to a large majority of water and they would pay them in tech for transportation of Aqua Pura. Sable bitterly thought it was better than nothing, with the current Elder seeming to lack the basic decency of his predecessor. With hopeful eyes, she gripped her plasma rifle towards the purifier and declared to herself this was a new beginning. It was her father who had started this, but now it belonged to her. And nothing could change that now she had control of her own destiny.

One year ago, R.J. arrived in Megaton on her doorstep with a bundle in his arms. Sable ushered him in warmly, with Wadsworth on her heels eager to cater to her latest guest. He looked at her nervously, bobbing up and down with the bundle. Silently, Sable knew the struggle he faced with being the sole father of a child. It reminded her, in the deep recesses of her memory, of her and her own father. He urgently begged her to take care of Duncan as he searched to find a cure down southward. Sable placed her hand on his upper arm to soothe him and took the bundle from his anxious hands. The little boy, tinged with a feverish blue hue smiled up at her, seemingly unaffected by the obvious affliction. She, at that moment, recalled a time when she was a baby and her father whispered the words of Revelation to her. She smiled at him and told R.J. he would be perfectly safe family. She would never let the mistake of her father affect another child willingly.

Today, she and Butch held Duncan together as they held the cure R.J. had sent north. A caravanner had urgently pounded on her door in Megaton, seeking her out for an important parcel for her hands only. He had transported it all the way from the Commonwealth from Daisy on behalf of R.J. As she soothed Duncan’s cries of discomfort, she lived content with knowing that soon he would be free from the affliction. She lived knowing that one day he would be able to see his father again.

Today, she lived with knowing that 10 years had gone by and that the world finally felt right in this moment.


	7. Liquid Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Val contemplated her namesake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for drug use

Her name was  _Valium_. Valium Rooker.

Somewhere out in the wastes, there was a billboard triumphantly standing over the wreckage of the apocalypse. Covered in radioactive grime and Mojave sand, the old-world trophy announced ‘Valium: Remedy to your Maladies’ in faded blue script with a faded cartoon V pulsating in technicolor under it. Twenty-odd years ago, her parents had found themselves beneath this behemoth enamored with it. Somewhere in their shot minds, strung out and hazy with psycho and jet, the sign spoke to them and whispered its old wisdom. Or perhaps, it just reminded them of more drugs they could one day try. Regardless of their reason, its sweet allure led them to name her after it.

Val was not ignorant by any means; from her youth, she found that her namesake was something else people could pop or shoot up into their arms. Maybe other kids found her name tough and cool – a real making of a Great Khan in-training. Maybe other kids found her name utterly ridiculous – the product of junkie parents. But it didn’t really matter. What mattered was how tepid and shallow she found her name to be. Embarrassed to even let the hollows of Bitter Springs hear it.

As it was, Val later found out, Valium in its pharmaceutical form was rare to find. If a prospector was lucky, he’d find pills stamped ‘V’ in an old pharmacy or liquid vials in old hospitals. Once she was of age, baring the Great Khan skull on her back as a warning to others, Val was sent to pick over medical complexes to gather chemicals for the Khan’s to use. Something to create an extra kick to head in the goods, the draggers had always told her. Plus, Med-X and stimpaks were always good finds. When she first encountered her first vial of Prince Valium, she was 15. With her Khan leather warding off lesser Vipers and Jackals, she had kicked through rubbish and skeletons from patients unlucky enough to have experienced the atomic blast and gathered assorted chemical compounds to store in her prospecting bag. Then, there at the end of the hall, the vial of Valium stood like a colossus ready to be taken by her hands. Taking it from its pedestal felt like a collision of new world and old world that Val had not felt before. Though it sounded more poetic than Jerry’s bad poetry, she swore she could feel the spark in her fingertips as she grasped it. The vial was so insignificant, with the blue script and ‘V’ stamp her parents had described to her in reverence.

‘Calming’ was the word the bottle used to describe its effect.

Val thought it was the world’s most ironic joke being played upon her. Her parents had earnestly named her after a drug they saw on a billboard, it was supposed to be one that could calm the nerves. Val was rough around the edges with finesse in bodily harm only the Great Khan’s admired. She had eyes of steel, a firm set frown, and nothing about the way she turned her knives over in her hands was calming. She was trained to intimidate. Her whole personality was forged in the shape of glinting steel.

Loading the empty syringe with the clear liquid with shaking hands, she knew it was not Khan’s way to try the goods out. But a part of her could not help herself; her whole life she heard its name, and she had to know what it could do. She tugged on the leather belt she tied around her arm, letting the vein bulge from under her sun-kissed skin. The needle slid into her veins, silently shooting her up and filling herself with liquid gold. The calm began to set in, and Valium couldn’t think of a time that shooting anything felt like that. The last time she shot anything it was when she shot Telly in the shoulder for calling her a pussy, much to Papa Khan’s dismay.

Sitting in the decaying hospital, empty syringe in her hand, she let herself become Valium in whole. The drug-induced calm let her sink into the leather chair that the world had not let her feel before. Val wondered vaguely if this was how people were able to feel before the bombs fell. In the wasteland, no one was spared any sort of rest. There were enemies with weapons, friends biding time to stab you in the back, the sweltering heat of an atomic sun, the thirst for pure water, and never a luxuriously sleep from taking refuge in dilapidated buildings. In a moment, she felt like a breathing monument to the world that had destroyed itself.

The old world was not dead in the Mojave, unlike how people believed. It was merely sleeping beneath the sands and blood, waiting patiently to recover. The billboard was a part of it’s bigger grasp on America’s skeleton. Monuments, like everything, waiting to be awakened from a world mankind thought it had lost. Val remembered staring up at the signs when she was away from the canyon alcoves of Bitter Springs, wondering what signs used to say or what the old world was like. She looked at houses, long abandoned, and wondered who had once lived there.

Were they happy?

Were they rich on America’s dream?

What happened to them?

She always saw the old world with old eyes, even though she was born well into its demise. Still, she saw the titans of old and waited for them to awaken, with liquid gold in her arm.


	8. Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Val can't stand the sight of the New California banner. She would rather forget what they've done.

As she gazed up at the vast Mojave sky, she wished the endless desert would swallow her up. That the sands may wither her away till even her bones with ash in the vast expanse of nuclear wasteland. She would prefer the idea of being nothing than the sweat rolling down her face now. The cruel sun beat down on her brow and the blinded her eyes. But the bright burn was more welcome than the shadow that passed overhead in the wind. The banner of the bear waving obstinately against the crisp, free sky.

“Try to behave, Val,” Dallas sighed to her left. As she turned slightly to words, she could hear the exasperation in his words – like she would be the one to mess things up. Dallas was a harsh sight in the desert day, with his piercing eyes and dirty fatigues. Val almost instantly wished for the sun’s merciful blinding light so she didn’t have to see the sniper rifle strapped to his back and the too-familiar armor. Though he wasn’t wearing an insignia, she knew where it would be. Val gripped her blade tighter. She could handle the sight of the signature make of a rifle most days. Just not here.

Ember hummed at the two of them, gazing at Val as if she could see her thoughts. Perhaps she could; Val couldn’t decipher what she truly thought most of the time. The courier was a wild card that hid her emotions behind sharp words and witty remarks. Val supposed that didn’t make the two of them that different from one another – only she covered hers with real blades. Val returned his stare in equal measure, but before she knew it the moment was broken. “We don’t want to tread on the bear. Maybe we might have to snip the balls off a dumb recruit but try not to stab anyone.”

“Then why bring me here,” Val scoffed. The political game of Jenga had gotten no less precarious with the disposal of Mr. House and the assembly of the courier coalition they created. And while Caesar’s forces were easily dealt with by bullets (and well-placed stabs), the New California Republic was like a Big Horner they did not want to anger: Forceful, strong, yet peaceful but if you encroached too far on its territory it would turn against you. New California was a power of the west, only a fool wouldn’t see that, and it was not one they wanted to sever a relationship with yet.

Still, Val wasn’t a fan of the strategy. Or moreover, she wasn’t happy she had to be a part of it.

But they were here. She was there on the dusty asphalt of Camp McCarran with steel walls closing in on her and the Bear breathing down her neck. As the three couriers walked across the grounds to the repurposed airport base, Val’s unease continued to grow. She wore her leather armor, but she could feel her Khan insignia sear her skin. It was as if every shitfaced recruit and every egotistical officer could sense her Khan blood. Val’s knuckles were white from her tight grip around her knife’s hilt. She feared an inescapable moment where they just _knew_ who she was.

Ember opened the terminal door with a flourish of her hands in a cheeky ‘after you’ moment for Dallas and Val. As they entered the cool, dark building offering refuge from the abrasive sun, Ember gave a friendly nod to the front guard on duty. Just her nod set Val off. Like this was a trap and she was being led to their open fire. Another Khan dead was a victory of the NCR.

 

* * *

 

_She could remember the sound of the gunfire still. The rotary sound of semi-automatic guns, the thunder of the rifles, the whiz of suppressed bullets through the air – all of them piercing flesh. All tearing down people before they could even move to defend themselves. Indiscriminatory gunfire. For them, there was only them and the savages._

 

* * *

 

But no shot ever came. It would never come. Val knew deep down that Ember was her ally and more importantly, she was a good person. Ember was a friend of the Khans and the people of New Vegas, and she wasn’t a double-crosser. The door closed behind her with a loud thud that caused Val to nearly jump out of her skin. If the redhead saw her twitch, she decided not to comment about it. Only the echo off the empty walls filed her ears, the hollow sound of footsteps creating a sense of dread like she was marching into a heart of darkness. They rounded to the stairs. Val met the eyes of a young NCR lackey from across the railing. He looked tired, covered in a permanent layer of sand, and like his muscles ached from too long hours. In his eyes, she could feel that the Bear was taking him dry and his work wasn’t being rewarded. But he kept doing it because he was told that this is what honor was. The cadet looked at her with emerald eyes gaunt from exhaustion.

 

* * *

 

_She remembers Javv’s eyes were green like a lush oasis. He smiled her and took care of her scars while pretending to coo. The Khans were more than a gang or a symbol of being tough. The Khans were a family and out of all her family, Javv was the best brother in arms she could have. Javv would’ve understood how painful this place was to her._

 

* * *

 

Val tore her eyes away instantly. She didn’t want to look at any of them if she could help it. Nor could she stand that shade of green. Inside her, a slurry of emotions stormed under her surface. She couldn’t tell if it was born of hatred, guilt, anger, sadness, or something else. Maybe it was all of them. Dimly, Val supposed it was lucky that Ember served as her guide. She was easy to keep track of from her vibrant red hair. In this moment of uncertainty, Val could afford to let her body unconsciously follow the color. Her vision was collapsing around the edges and she felt disconnected from her body. But she could follow Ember like a light in the darkness.

After taking long strides up the defunct escalators, the trio arrived at the office of the Colonel. As far as Val was concerned, it was the hole of a head of the imperialist army. The guards stationed outside seemed to acknowledge Dallas as an NCR ally and stood down right away.

“Lieutenant Carvalho. And this is the Courier Six and our associate Rooker,” He stated coolly to the guards. “We’re here to see Colonel Hsu on official business pertaining to New Vegas.”

“Would you not seek out General Oliver at Hoover?”

Dallas scoffed. “General Wait-and-See? No, we need an officer with tactical sense now. But rest assured the Bear will hear any news for him if we have it.”

For Dallas’ straight-laced attitude, he lied through his teeth surprisingly well. The guards motioned for them to enter Hsu’s office. Ember was smiling deviously at Dallas’ back, with him likely ignoring her. If Val knew anything about the two, it was likely the beginning of Ember’s endeavor to tease him over rank. The Khan went to follow her companions, but her vision homed in on the movement to her. The guard moved to rush toward her, his arm poised to seize hers. Val felt her heartbeat stutter.

 

* * *

 

_She could see the soldier charge at Javv, the glint of steel guiding him. Javv knelt near a mother clutching her leg that had been hit by a bullet from the ridge. The sounds in her ears were too much all at once: the cries of a child, the yells of Khan’s trying to escape, the curses of the mother as tears defiantly fell from her eyes, Javv’s urgent words. Val felt her vocal cords tear as she screamed for him._

_Javv looked up. But the knife was already lodged in his body, blood pouring out onto the woman below him. She could see his green eyes._

 

* * *

 

 

“—Ma’am!” the guard commanded at her as she was pulled back into her present. Val had instinctively moved back once she saw him move. Her knife was dangerously close to being raised. “Put your weapon down. Now!”

Dallas was there between them in an instant, like a stone wall. Val felt almost disoriented and sick gazing at the scene. She felt like she was barely tethered to her body and she wanted to leave – oh how she wanted to leave. Why did they insist on her being here? Dallas and Ember had enough grace with the imperialists without her. All this did was make her taste bile and feel like an outsider in her own body.

“Calm down, she’s not an assassin you dunce,” Dallas snarled. “She’ll put away her weapon without a scene.

Dallas turned his head to her. His dark eyes demanded her to do as she said or else they would’ve been in deep Brahmin shit. Val’s eyes swerved to see Ember’s cool expression, but unable to read her. Her eyes were green too. With lots of reluctant effort, Val slid her knife into its holster on her hip. Her knuckles ached from the grip, but her body was palpable with tension still. She gripped her hand into a fist. Dallas lowered his cautionary outstretched arms, pleased with her. He turned to give a sharp glare to the guard as they went to head in.

At a desk, looking abysmal, was Colonel Hsu. His weary eyes looked over at them with a pleasant air of surprise. “Lieutenant Carvalho. Courier Six.”

He didn’t say a name for her. She didn’t want him to wrap his lips around hers.

“Colonel Hsu, we were hoping to discuss some logistics of New Vegas. After all, with the recent attacks on Nipton I can’t help but be concerned,” Dallas began. His voice was lighter than when he usually spoke. He oozed the New California city charm and manipulation. As he went on, his voice became drowned out by the tumult in her own head. Above Hsu’s desk hung the banner of New California, stark white with red and the hungry bear.

 

* * *

 

_Val pressed her hand desperately to Javv’s jugular, hot slick blood oozing over her fingers. She doesn’t remember what she said if she said anything at all. Nor can she remember if he did. His lips were trying to move but she couldn’t remember. All she remembered was the warmth dissipating at the smell of copper in the air. Around her, the world was silent. Nothing besides Javv was important. Above the ridge, she saw the Bear. The banner stark white in the light and accented with red. Red like the color of her people shot to the ground._

 

* * *

 

Val stood there in the den of the beast. She hated that damn banner that they flew. The bear stared into her soul and laid her identity to waste. In its empty eyes, she could still see the bloody corpses at Bitter Springs. And standing in Colonel Hsu’s office, she realized that nothing she ever did would make it go away. New California would grow hungrier and more ravenous and they would step on those they deemed savages again. The ways of imperialists don’t change.

Just as the fact that Javv was dead.

Just as the fact the endless Mojave sky promised freedom it could not give.


End file.
